Helen, Deirdre, Héloïse, Laura, Cleopatra, Eve! The knight-at-arms is on his knees, Still at your altars—by your leave.

The magic of your smiles and frowns Had made you goddesses by right, Divorced the monarchs from their crowns, And changed world empires overnight.

You caught the male for good or ill, And locked him in a golden cage, Or let him out at your sweet will— A prince or peasant, lord or page.

But do not preen your wings and claim That when you passed away, the keys— The symbols of your charm and fame— Were buried with your effigies.

For, wild and lovely are your broods That stole from you the ancient arts; In tender or tempestuous moods, They storm the barrens of our hearts.

Amy, Hilda, Wilhelmine, Golden Marie and slim Suzette, Viola, Claire and dark Eileen, Brown-eyed Mary, blue-eyed Bett.

Daughters are ye of those days When Troy and Rome and Carthage burned: Ye cannot mend your mothers' ways Or play a trick they hadn't learned.

But whether joy or whether woe— Lure of lips or scorn of eyes— We bless you either way we go, In or out of Paradise.